Regulation of the Dead
by DarknessOnTheEdgeOfTown
Summary: Set in Nebraska in 1892 and 2012. It alternates to tell the story of Frank Canton and Cheyenne Tom at the start of the zombie apocalypse and of Greg Fontaine and Carla Waits in the newly-adjusted world. Hopefully, it will be something of an epic story which will continue for some time so please keep up to date and PLEASE review and even suggest ideas.
1. Bad Moon Rising

**Regulation of the Dead**

**CHAPTER I: **

**BAD MOON RISING**

Nebraska, 1892-

Frank Canton pulled down his Stetson just below his dark eyebrows so as to block out the setting yet powerful sun. As orange bled into the evening sky he slung his rifle over his shoulder and drew a six-shooter revolver from his holster instead. He turned around to face Cheyenne Tom and gave a strange half-smile.

"This ain't gonna be a range war." He murmured with dry and tactless humour and moved towards the wooden KC Ranch. Canton was a tall man with broad shoulders which were hidden under his beige coat. His scarred face was covered in shadows from his tipped hat and his thick moustache didn't move, not even in the breeze.

While at the door of the ranch he held his hand out and signalled Cheyenne Tom to get down low. He did so and lay on his belly, his Winchester Rifle pointed steadily at the crooked door.

Frank knocked hard three times.

"Open up, boys." He hollered. "It's Canton. Frank Canton." Silence seeped from under the door. He waited for a few moments and then strolled back to Tom, a plan forming in his dark eyes.

"What now, Frank?" Asked Tom clambering to his feet.

Tom was smaller than Canton, smaller than most men, in fact, but was also faster. His body was thin and nimble but also stronger than steel, some said. He got his name from ingratiating himself within a tribe of Cheyenne Indians for six months. Nobody knew how he blended in so well, being white as a sheet and toting his Winchester wherever he went. He couldn't even speak the dialect. But he managed it.

"Now?" Frank repeated and pulled the hammer back on his revolver. "Now we check our other options. Stay low and be alert."

Frank hitched up his slumping belt and moved quickly down the side of the ranch in an awkward yet graceful crouch. Dust was kicked up in his wake and formed a yellow and brown mist around his ankles and irritated his eyes.

At the back of the ranch he slid down behind a broken out window. Although the glass was gone—most of it, anyway—a dirty green blanket had been draped over the gap in a feeble attempt to keep out insects that might be disturbing to live with. Frank took in a long, deep inhale and then slowly breathed out cool air. He closed his eyes, counted to three and peered through a gap in the blanket, his breath held in his lungs.

His eyes drifted left and saw nothing but an empty room with a burned out log fire and a bucket of piss. His eyes drifted right and he saw nothing but an empty room and a bucket of water. He grimaced at the prospect of having those buckets in such close proximity but also had to admire the cyclical nature of it, such was his sense of humour. _You'd never have to leave the room_, he thought to himself and swung his eyes left once more. This time his breath caught up with him and he spluttered out air when he saw what he saw. Some kind of beast stood gazing at him with lifeless grey eyes. It seemed to resemble a man but at the same time, Frank thought, it was unrecognisable as a human.

"Fuck," Canton breathed and fell onto his backside, kicking around in the dust, trying to find his feet and balance. He was a man who had seen much action, especially in the years when he was a US Marshal, but the thing he saw in the ranch chilled him. He wondered if the thing could have possibly been real when it reared its ugly head, pushing the blanket aside and moaning low. Its teeth were yellow and the lips were non-existent. Its skin had a grey-green tinge to it and its jaw snapped with such ferocity that he was stuck to the spot. He thought about calling for Cheyenne Tom but knew even in his state of panic not to make a sound.

The creature leaned through the window and made a confused noise in its throat as it realised the wall of the ranch blocked its way. Frank's eyes narrowed and he studied the rotting face.

"Champion?" he whispered. "Nate Champion?"

The monster—Champion, as Canton knew him—gave out a hideous groan and then fell silent when it heard the voice behind him.

"Nate? Where are you, friend? You smell something?"

Frank recognised the voice immediately. Nick ray, the other man they were sent to kill, next to Nate Champion. They were cattle rustlers and it seemed the local cattlemen were pushed to breaking point. Canton and Tom, The Regulators, as they were called, were hired to put an end to them, one way or another. Canton had always preferred putting criminals down but was starting to regret taking on this particular case.

By the time Nick reached the window and his possessed friend, Frank had already left and was heading back to Tom.

"Are they home or shall we call back later?" Tom jested but soon regretted the joke when he saw the look on Canton's face. "W-what's the matter, Frank? You seen 'em?"

"I saw... you believe in God, son?"

Tom nodded. "Well sure, I guess so."

"I hope to shit you're right because the devil just looked in my eyes."

"The devil just-? What're you talking about, Frank? What devil?" Tom adjusted the grip on his rifle subtly.

"This place ain't right." Canton said. "Ain't right." This time with more emphasis. "We gotta go."

"Go? We been paid to do a job. You wanna give Walcott his money back?"

"Fuck Walcott!" Frank screamed. "Fuck him! You wanna go in there then be my fucking guest but I'm getting the hell outta here."

Tom was stunned into silence and suddenly the dry clicking sound his mouth made seemed incredibly loud. The men argued with each other with their eyes before Tom spat on the ground and held up his hands.

"You're the boss. Get the ponies."

Frank nodded at him with relief and gratitude for agreeing to leave and walked shakily to the two black ponies a few feet away. Just as his hand clutched the reigns he heard an almighty scream and a deathly crashing sound.

"Jesus!" exclaimed Tom as Nick Ray smashed through the cabin door with a cry. A maverick piece of splintered wood tore through his abdomen, causing him to scream again before a trickle of blood vomited from his mouth.

"Let's go!" Shouted Frank as he climbed onto the pony.

Tom just kept staring until Champion emerged from the doorway and moaned and spluttered with evil.

"Holy shit," said Tom under his breath but just continued to stare.

Frank leapt from his pony and tried to drag Tom away but both of their attention was on Champion who now knelt down to the dying Nick.

Nick gargled blood and then let out one single scream of agony as Champion sunk his diseased teeth into his neck and began ripping apart his flesh, shredding his jugulars and swallowing everything.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" stuttered Tom and shot quickly with his rifle, the recoil taking him out of his trance. The bullet tore through Champion's body, jilting him but not effecting him. When his meal was done his stumbled to his feet and moved to Tom and Frank. Tom fired another shot, this time through Champion's neck. Dark blood cascaded out but still nothing seemed to damage Champion. He just kept coming with relentless hunger.

"What the hell's going on here?" he barked at Frank. "Why the hell ain't he dying?"

In one swift, terrified moment, Frank swung his arm down, pulled up his revolver and shot Champion through the head, stopping him in his tracks. Dust and blood hovered around the dead body and Tom breathed hard.

"The fucking head." Frank gasped in disbelief.


	2. Radio Nowhere

**Chapter II**

**Radio Nowhere**

"This is Radio Nowhere broadcasting all across the beautiful state of Nebraska! This is your long-time host and life-long friend Greg Fontaine wishing you a safe and productive morning." Greg sat back in his torn up leather chair and pushed the microphone away from his stubbly face. He took a sip of coffee from a white mug by his side and put his lips to the microphone again.

"It's been 100 days today since the last victim of a walker and that, I think, is cause for celebration." There was a genuine smile on Greg's face as he remembered the days when casualties weren't so rare—just barely, though. He brushed his hand backwards through his fair hair and pulled a party popper in front of the microphone, sending a celebratory bang all over Nebraska.

"That was the unmistakable sound of joy, ladies and gentlemen. 100 days without trouble from the walkers. The network has asked me to run through our weekly safety instructions so please listen carefully." Greg pulled open a draw and hauled out a pad of paper with loose handwriting scribbled all over it. There were some vague bullet points about how to deal with walkers if you see them, how to look after your own walker and things that people already knew about. It was imperative, the neo-government had explained, that people do not forget they are in constant danger.

"Most importantly for those of you without a handlers licence for a walker do not approach them unless you are supervised by a permit holder; they are deadly and can't be controlled unless you've had appropriate training." There was a knock on the door behind him which he didn't hear.

"If you do have a license and own a walker, like myself, then it's imperative that you remember to feed it every other hour. Feed it raw red meat and make sure it's _always_ chained up." Another knock on the door. This time Greg heard it and turned around in annoyance.

_Dead air_, he thought to himself and smirked slightly. The door opened and John Snow walked in. John was the network manager and broadcasting director so dressed accordingly. A sharp pinstriped suit that was tailored specifically to his frame almost glistened in under the two studio lights and if you were to check there'd be not one spec of dirt on it. John Snow hated dirt. Greg even found him cleaning the toilets at Radio Nowhere and had asked him if he enjoyed cleaning. "No," he replied "I enjoy things being clean."

Greg pointed to the pad of paper and circled his index finger around point 3: how to put down a rogue walker. Remove the head or destroy the brain. It was common knowledge yet most people in a state of terror can forget and spend hours beating away at the torso or shooting out the knee-caps. A walker was most dangerous when it was on the ground as it looks unthreatening.

"Forget it." John Snow said in an irritable tone. "We're off the air."

"Off the air?" Greg drank the last of his coffee while John Snow waited for the inevitable question to follow. "Why?" There it was.

"Fuck knows." John replied with haste. He pinched the bridge of his nose, dragging his tired eyes in together. "Power's gone or the signal's gone. You'll have to ask Josh down in tech."

"God damn it. No one's missing anything important, at least."

"Nothing important?" John's eyes widened with rage.

"Uh, nothing they don't already know, that is."

John's eyes subsided. "I guess not. Doesn't hurt to remind people though, son."

"I'll remind them as soon as we're back on the air."

"We're not going to be back on the air. Certainly not today, anyway. Tomorrow's not looking great either."

"Jesus, is it that bad?" Greg pulled his grey cardigan over his chest and sat with his arms folded, confused concentration screwing up his face. A face for radio, his wife says.

"Again: you'll have to ask tech. If I was you I'd skip tech and go straight home. We'll send one of our runners round tomorrow to let you know where we stand."

When Greg got home he found his wife sat on the bottom stair looking anxious. As soon as he came through the door she was on him, pressing her face into his chest and sobbing gently.

"Carla, honey, what's wrong?" he said as he stroked the back of her hair.

"I was... I-I listened to your sh-show and..." Greg kissed her on the top of her head. "And the power went off and I thought you... I thought you were... "

"Come here." He said and led her to their sofa. "I'm fine. The world's not what it used to be thirty years ago, babe. We're safe." Carla pushed her red hair from her dripping eyes and looked at her husband with love and doubt.

"I just can't get used to it."

"Listen," he began and bit his lip in hesitation. "I know you feel anxious, considering how your parents _went_... but we're safer than they were."

"It doesn't help that we have one in the house!" she sniffled and swung her arm in the direction of the small room next to the front door. It used to be a bathroom but they converted it into a storage room to keep Michael, their walker. Michael was fairly tame now but occasionally still tried to bite Greg or Carla. Mostly they had him as security. It would attack any thieves and moan loudly if anyone entered the house.

"Michael won't hurt you, honey."

"Stop calling it Michael! It's a fucking animal! It's worse than an animal! _Don't _give it a name."

Greg rubbed his face with his palms and stood up with confidence. The morning sun was illuminating their lounge and actually made it look pretty. Their magnolia wallpaper was peeling and yellowing but the sun somehow managed to make it look quaint.

"I'm going to catch up on some sleep." He muttered and walked past Carla and up the stairs.

Michael clamped his teeth together and dribbled some odious liquid.


	3. Gave It a Name

**Chapter III**

**Gave It a Name**

The grass was tall in the dry field and nearly reached the necks of Canton and Cheyenne Tom. It crackled under their boots and the dried up dirt made a crunching sound with every step they took. It would normally have sounded soothing in regular circumstances but now, a week into what the preachers were calling The End of Days, it echoed through the desolate land.

Although only seven days had passed since the nightmarish incident at the KC Ranch, both men were quite adept at surviving in the New World and had already identified several types of new creature. There were the walkers which made up the majority of the undead hunters. They shambled around almost at random but sometimes, they observed, followed their sense of smell. There were lurkers which seemed docile and passive but would attack at the very last moment. Crawlers usually had broken legs or were just a torso pulling itself along with their claws. They were accidentally the stealthy killers.

Tom dropped to his knees every ten minutes or so to survey the grass around them, being careful to make sure nothing was there. Since the dead started rising humans had become more deadly than before. When life was given to the dead it seemed that the conscience had been taken from the living. Tom, a man who lived by The Bible (however loosely) once remarked that they lived in ungodly times now and the only way to survive would be to throw out the Ten Commandments. He had done so and they were surviving.

"It's getting real dark, real fast." Observed Canton as Tom stared up at the purple sky. "We're gonna have to make camp soon." Tom nodded in agreement but stayed silent. He took out a large knife from his boot and began to hack wildly through the tall grass, desperate to get to the other side of the endless field.

Canton put a hand on his shoulder to stop him and dumped his pack on the dirt floor.

"I think this is the place." He said grimly. "We ain't making it out of this field for at least another day." They'd both lost their bearings a few days ago and for all they knew were just travelling in circles.

"Yessir." Saud Tom quickly, a hint of defeat in his strong voice. It hadn't rained in weeks anyway so their camp was nothing more than a length of rope round their sleeping bodies to keep the snakes away. They'd only seen one snake in the last week. It was constricting a walker's neck. The snake died.

"Keep an eye open since you're so keen." Canton commanded and lay on his side in a large ball.

"You got it." Tom exhaled in a weary reply.

God knows how many hours passed before Tom's shriek woke Canton up. He wasn't there when he opened his eyes and he scrambled to his feet, revolver in hand.

"Son of a bitch!" called Tom from somewhere in the field. The grass made it almost impossible for Canton to find him to had no choice but to risk his position and call out to him.

"Where the hell are you? Are you hurt?"

"I've been fucking bit!" He called back, and Canton rode his voice to him.

He found him lying in a flattened patch of grass clutching his ankle between his bloodied fingers. A dead crawler lay next to him, its brains spilling out and dyeing the brown dirt red. A revolver with a bloody handle lay next to the crawler.

"It was in the grass." Tom said in defence. "Didn't see the cocksucker 'til his was gnawing on my leg. Jesus, it hurts, Frank."

"Just, uh, just stay still, alright? I'll fetch you some of my water."

"I don't need water. I need medicine."

"I got some whiskey in my pack, too."

"No drink." He grimaced and heaved himself up to a sitting position. "_Medicine_." He wiped some sweat from his forehead and spat out some strange congealed liquid. "There's a Cheyenne encampment near here, that's why I came out this far. I saw the smoke and followed it and... They'll know what to do."

Canton panicked. "Son of a bitch. They'll scalp me before I get through the gate."

Tom just shook his head and closed his eyes. "I can't walk. Never should have used our ponies as bait. What a dumbass fucking idea that was." He let out a painful chuckle. "Wouldn't do me no good, anyhow. We seen what happens when a guy gets bit. I'm in for a hell of a journey."

"I don't wanna hear that shit from your mouth, you hear? I'm gonna get you some help and we'll be in a saloon by nightfall."

"No," he replied weakly but firmly. "It's over for me, Frank. It's all over."

Frank was silent for a moment and just looked at his dying friend. The pain would soon become unbearable and when the fever hit... it didn't need thinking about. A man could go insane thinking about what a bite could do to them. Just need to get it fixed. Need to get it healed and dressed correctly. Frank hadn't seen anyone survive a bite but if anyone could he was sure it would be Cheyenne fucking Tom.

The camp was less than a half hour walk but took Canton twice that to drag his friend. A member of the Cheyenne tribe spotted Canton quickly and ran down, Tomahawk in hand to scout for danger. His dark eyes widened when he saw the nature of the wound and swiftly shared Tom's weight with Canton.

"I'll take you to Chief Running Blade." He said matter-of-factly. "He knows medicine."

The largest tepee in the encampment belonged to Chief Running Blade who was found sitting around a fire in the middle of it. His legs were crossed, his eyes were closed and he seemed at peace. He never broke from his trance even as panic and noise surrounded him. Finally, when his eyes opened, he surveyed the wound from across the fire and lowered his head.

"Wendigo." He said knowingly.


End file.
